


color in your cheeks (have you no idea that you're in deep?)

by halfpenny



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, F/M, Romance, deeply problematic understanding of how human intimacy works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfpenny/pseuds/halfpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of audreyii_fic's "On Each Other's Teams."</p><p>Jane Foster and the aftermath of her return, post-London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreyii_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [On Each Other's Teams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339960) by [audreyii_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/pseuds/audreyii_fic). 



When Jane talks about London, it varies. Her co-researchers get stories about the pub culture and the requisite “our-lab-is-better-than-their-lab” exaggerations. Eric hears about Darcy and how much Jane misses her, and the near constant rain and how little Jane misses that. The series of bad first dates, none of which seem to transition past that, hear about how lucky she was, what a wonderful opportunity, absolutely you should totally go if you get a chance. Her therapist listens to her fractured recitations about Thor and Frigga and how survivor guilt should have the decency to stay within the Odinson family. Each and every one of them responds appropriately, whether with smiles or head-shaking bewilderment or kind words of affirmation, and Jane appreciates it immensely.

 

When Jane talks about London, she tells herself that she’s telling the whole story. Self-deception is one of her strong suits.

 

Any yet.

 

More often that she’d admit, she dreams about London. And in her dreams, there are no smiles or affirmations, kind or otherwise. In her dreams, there are no stories either. She dreams in images, impressions. The smell of pencil shavings. The sound of glass breaking. A cool hand gripped hard on her hip. A grinning mouth pressed against her neck.

 

At first when she wakes from these, she’s confused by her room, the absence of rain pattering against the window, the pre-dawn heat a promise of another white-hot day in Puente Antiguo. If she keeps her eyes closed, she could be back in her dingy student flat, Darcy shouting back at BBC Radio 3 in the kitchen, cupboards rattling in the search for instant coffee. If she keeps them closed, she can almost smell him on her skin.

 

Months pass, then seasons. Then it’s been a year and London is more memory than fact. Some days Jane thinks it’s entirely possible everything from that semester happened to someone else. It’s like a story someone told her that she doesn’t quite believe. Her days are filled with data, collecting and compiling, and her nights, as always, are filled with stars. She’s happy here, in the desert, thousands of miles from the person who stood in an airport security line and thought, _only a fool would stay_ , and thought, _you said it out loud and ruined everything_ , and thought, _maybe_.

 

Jane Foster is a scientist, and what is science but humanity grasping at certainty with sticky fingers, the endless pursuit of theorem over theory, the bottomless desire to be sure of something.

 

Jane Foster is a scientist. And when she dreams of London, that’s the only thing she’s sure of.


	2. do you ever get the feeling that you can't shift the tide that sticks around

Jane has been ignoring her email for a while now (“listen, data isn’t going to visualize itself, okay Eric?”) and the subsequent weeding of spam from her inbox is a welcome distraction now that she has a few hours of code compiling ahead of her. Newsletter, coupon, coupon, listserv discussion on publication best practices, coupon. Jane clicks through without really reading any, deleting with extreme prejudice if not active attention.

 

 A Skype invite from the UK catches her eye. _Hi, jfoster-phd! DarcyLew-BetterThanYou would like to add you as a friend._ Jane doesn’t think twice, just clicks Accept and asks if Darcy still does Take-away Thai Thursdays.

 

She does, and the next Thursday, Jane sits down to lunch at her desk (microwave pad thai from the grocery store, Puente Antiguo isn’t known for East Asian cuisine) as Darcy plunks herself in front of her laptop, dinner balanced on her knees.

 

“Jane Foster, as I live and breathe,” Darcy crackles across the connection and it’s like no time has passed at all. Jane grins, wide and goofy, just to hear her friend after so long.

 

“Hey Darcy, what’s new?” Jane relaxes as Darcy talks about everything. Her job in publishing PR, her parade of short-term roommates, her complete and cheerful disregard for any thought of getting an advanced degree (“the poli-sci undergrad is bad enough, why would I want to make myself completely unemployable?”) Jane listens and smiles, basking as the best parts of London sift to the surface.

 

Darcy mentions the Underground and Jane laughs. “Did you finally give up on driving?”

 

Darcy shifts a bit. “No, I’m getting lessons. And, uh, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk about.”

 

 

“Your driving lessons?”

 

“More like my driving teacher...it’s, well, it’s someone we both know.”

 

It is suddenly very cold in the lab. _No god no please oh my god don’t say it…_

 

“It’s Thor.”

 

Horrible, pathetic, Jane-what-is-wrong-with-you _relief_ floods her. “Oh,” is all she says.

 

Darcy ploughs on. “We ran into each other at a party a month ago. Someone did a biography of his dad and my agency handled the release PR. I gave him a lift home and afterwards, he said I either needed to stay off the roads or get a teacher. And, well--”

 

“Darcy--”

 

“He’s a really good teacher! He’s super laid-back and we’re having a lot of fun, and last week he asked me to dinner and I don’t--”

 

“Darcy!” Does it feel a little weird to hear about Thor dating? Maybe, but not as much as Jane would have imagined. Is Jane jealous? To her relief, she’s not. That’s the relief she’s thinking about, not the other, not the flood of _oh thank God_ she’d felt when Darcy didn’t say- “I think it’s great.”

 

Darcy cocks her head. “Really?” Then, when she decides Jane’s tell the truth, she grins, heart-stoppingly pretty even over a terrible Skype connection. “Awesome.”

 

They make plans for the following Thursday and sign off. Jane pushes away the cold pad thai and puts her head down on her desk. She tries to think about nothing.

 

She only moves once her computer beeps, telling her the code is ready.

 


	3. are there some aces up your sleeve?

Take-away Thursday (Jane drops even the pretence of Thai after a mild bout of food poisoning, serves her right for raiding the 90% OFF ALL MUST GO frozen food bin) becomes a regular feature. It’s not that Jane is anti-social or anything, far from it. She loves to talk and enjoys going out and has even been known to go dancing given the opportunity. Of course, these days, most of her talk is about hyperspace gravitational fields and going out typically involves 150 miles of desert in any direction. The less said about Jane’s attempt at line dancing, the better. So being able to talk to Darcy, it’s nice. It’s good to have someone grounded in her life. Albeit grounded in a way that means Jane ends up knowing way more about British tabloids than is probably healthy.

 

Once Jane breaks down and gets Whatsapp (“how have you survived this long without it?!”) they start texting each other as well. Slowly, Darcy starts to reference Thor more, carefully at first, then more casually. Jane feels a ping every time at first, but by Christmas, it’s long gone, and she laughs until she cries reading Darcy’s live-texts of Thor’s holiday shopping at Selfridges.

 

A few weeks in a row, after Valentine’s, Jane hears someone moving around in the background during their dinners. At first, she thinks it’s feedback, but when Darcy starts acting cagey about Skyping from her bedroom, Jane cottons on.

 

“It’s okay, Darcy,” she says around a mouthful of pot roast. There’s nothing like a home cooked meal. Well, cooked at someone’s home, at least. All food in the mini-fridge is fair game during the holiday exodus. If the students from the lab next door aren’t dedicated enough to pull all-nighters, they don’t deserve pot roast. “I know you’re dating him. You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

 

“Knowing is different from seeing, though.” Darcy sighs and pushes back her hair. It’s morning in the UK, which means it’s-- God only knows how late in New Mexico. She might need to start setting alarms to mark out hours again. “I just don’t want to lose this.” Darcy looks straight into the webcam. “I love you, boo.”

 

“Darcy Lewis--”

 

“It’s Darcy Lew, Who’s Better Than You, according to my profile--”

 

“Darcy Lew, go get your boyfriend so I can say hi.”

 

Darcy looks at her for a long minute before she nods and walks out of sight. Jane can hear muffled conversation from the other room. She takes a deep breath, then another.

 

There are footsteps and then there he is, hunching down to look at the camera. He’s as tall and golden and boyishly handsome as she remembers. He smiles at her, slow and a little sad, and yeah, her heart twists a bit thinking about the fact that he’s not hers to smile at anymore. But it doesn’t twist much and in a heartbeat or two, it’s gone.

 

“Hi,” Thor says.

 

“Hi,” Jane parrots.

 

There’s a silence. Thor rallies first, “How’s New Mexico?”

 

Jane was expecting a lot of things, but not something so basic. She panics. “Hot,” she says.

 

Thor stares at her, then starts to laugh at her. Jane laughs too, at herself and at them, and then they’re both cracking up, rocking back and forth, all but sobbing with mirth.

 

It’s good. It’s really good.

 

Darcy joins them with two mugs of tea, black and thick for her, sweet and light for Thor. Jane had never known that. They chat for a while, about nothing in particular, and then once Darcy works out how late (or early, rather) is it there, she orders Jane to bed and promptly hangs up.

 

Jane leans back in her chair, content.

 

That went well, she thinks. Really well.

 

Then, in a fit of optimistic, sleep-deprived madness, she Googles Loki.

 

That goes less well.

 


	4. have you no idea that you're in deep?

Loki Odinson is a well-known figure in London high society. He kept a low profile for years, letting Thor make the headlines with fast cars and a chiseled jaw during university, but recently he’s become quite the poster boy for “wild child from a good family” shock pieces. Nightclubs, models, a surprising (to everyone but Jane) run of luck in expensive, elegant casinos. A string of society-minded girlfriends, as well. All of them platinum blonde. Not a single one under 5’ 10’’.

 

Jane clicks through article after article detailing his exploits, page after page of photos of him smiling humorlessly (to the trained eye) at the camera leaving another party. Another blonde on his arm, her polished charm on display for the hungry cameras, all teeth and hair and terrible good humor at the fun of it all. Loki, for his part, seems to be careless and carefree, entirely apart from the travails of this world. He might as well be staring straight at Jane. _Look at me. Look how much I do not care._

 

It’s 9 AM, but to Jane it’s 6 PM, more or less, so she doesn’t feel guilty for the tequila she’s drinking, cut with orange juice, out of a coffee mug. And she doesn’t care, not really, not after almost two years without seeing him, without hearing his voice. Her heart doesn’t twist at the sight of his arms around other women.

 

Everything twists.

 

Her phone beeps and she slams the laptop closed. It’s Eric. She’s late for coffee.

 

At the diner, Eric glances at her notes, then slides them to one side. Jane makes a small noise of protest. Eric gestures expansively with his fork, bits of hash browns falling. “They’re good, Jane. Of course they’re good.” More hash browns. Jane gingerly pulls her notes closer to her. “In fact, they’re so good, I think you should go to Bern to present instead of me.”

 

Jane goggles. “Bern?” The University of Bern’s Center for Fundamental Physics was hosting a conference on applied astrophysics research in a few weeks. Eric was leading a panel discussion about their research. It is unspeakably prestigious. “Like, Bern Bern?”

 

 

Eric nodded. “It’s not pure astro, of course, but it’s juried and you’d get a publishing credit in the proceedings. There are worse things a newly-mint PhD could do over the summer.”

 

Jane opens her mouth. Then closes it. “So wait, Bern?”

 

“Yes, Jane. The one in Switzerland.” He frowns a little. “Unless you’re not inte--”

 

“Oh!” Jane starts. “Oh no! I mean, yes of course I am. It’s just-- I mean, Bern.”

 

Eric chuckles and returns to his breakfast. “Thankfully, flights are covered and hostels are pretty thick on the ground, so it shouldn’t break the bank too badly. All you really need to choose is where you want the layover, Lisbon or London.”

 

Jane doesn’t hesitate. “Lisbon. Definitely Lisbon.”


	5. i dreamt about you nearly every night this week

Jane is not a nervous traveller. She’s too fond of statistics to worry over plane crashes and too practical to think worrying would make a difference anyhow. So when the gate attendant at the embarrassingly small regional airport frowns at her console display, then at Jane, then at the console again, Jane doesn’t worry. She doesn’t worry when the attendant gets on the phone to her supervisor, or when the supervisor calls the airline.

 

When the supervisor then explains that there’s apparently a flag of some sort on her name, it doesn’t worry Jane. Jane Foster must be a common name, so she explains that she’s a physicist. She’s on her way to a conference. She shows them her printed-off reservation number. She’s not worried. The supervisor checks it then checks it again, then finally smiles. A few taps of the keyboard and Jane has a new set of tickets. “There, that should take care of the issue.” Jane is told to have a great day and she returns the sentiment. She boards the tiny plane and begins what should be 36 hours of grueling travel.

 

The operative word being should.

 

With the logic of airlines, she’s flown to LAX before flying to New York. In LAX, she’s bumped up to first class, a first in Jane’s travel history, and she enjoys the leg room and the plush pillows for five hours. In JFK, she heads to her connection gate, luggage in hand, ready for the reality of a coach ticket across the Atlantic. At the gate, her luggage is taken from her and she’s personally escorted to first class. “Excuse me,” she says as she’s installed in a futuristic pod-type seat and handed a leather-bound menu. “This can’t possibly be right, I didn’t--”

 

“There’s a standing order on any travel itinerary connected to your travel ID, ma’am,” explains the flight attendant. He indicates the menu in her hands. “Champagne is, of course, standard, but your itinerary specified a Caritzze Prosecco to be substituted as a matter of course.” He pauses, obviously torn between detached professionalism and snobbish admiration. “If I may say, ma’am, it’s an inspired substitution and will pair perfectly with the seared lamb entree.”

 

He vanishes, leaving Jane staring into space, her hands trembling with rage. This is impossible, she thinks. This cannot possibly be happening. A crystal flute of delicately bubbling liquid is slipped into one hand. She hears a clink and looks down at her tray table. There is a china plate with plump red strawberries in front of her.

 

Jane is too angry to protest.

 

Once she arrives in Lisbon, perfectly refreshed thanks to aloe-soaked hot towels and a personal facial mister, she collects her luggage and is unsurprised to see a chauffeur waiting, a card with “J Foster, PhD” held aloft. An expensive, understated black car takes her to a hotel.

 

Calling it a hotel does not accurately convey the scene. The place has the word “palace” in its name, for fuck’s sake. There is a double staircase flanked by twin chandeliers. Her suite has a goddamn canopy framing the largest bed in the history of mankind. The private balcony looks over a tropical water feature.

 

She is going to strangle the man with her bare hands.

 

The porter waves off her offer of a tip. “It’s been taken care of,” he informs her in British-accented English before pulling something from a small fridge-- no, no, absolutely not--

 

“As requested,” he says, settling the bottle gently in an ice bath. “Caritzze Prosecco, from the reserve vintage collection.” He pauses and Jane thinks he might be, oh God, is he _blushing_? “It comes with the gentleman’s--” He coughs. “Shall we say, explicit compliments.” He fusses with the arrangement, twisting it this way and that, looking everywhere but at Jane, which is most likely for the best as Jane is attempting without success to murder someone telepathically.

 

Once satisfied, the porter bows, he fucking bows, and heads for the door. Jane keeps looking at the prosecco and has to turn around when he speaks. “I quite agree, madame.” Jane must look confused because he elaborates. “Champagne has become so gauche.”

 

Jane can only smile tightly and wait until he’s out of the suite to exhale shakily. She reaches out and strokes down the neck of the bottle. It’s cool to the touch, beads of condensation damping her fingers.

 

It’s still there, untouched, when she leaves for the airport in the morning.


	6. how many secrets can you keep?

Her accommodations in Bern have been altered as well. This time, her hotel is so modern it takes Jane twenty full minutes to find the light switch. Her bathroom has some kind of artificial intelligence compliant shower controlled by a single dial. The entire desk is backlit like a giant iPad and Jane’s too freaked out to put anything on it lest it break and require a fleet of repairmen to replace.

 

It’s a four day conference and Jane experiences it in a blur. She hobnobs as best she can (she’s never had Eric’s ease with other professionals. Or anyone really.) She attends dinners and keynote speeches, taking notes on who’s doing what in the realm of applied physics. Her panel is well-received and incredibly well-attended for a session in the same timeslot as the editor of Classical and Quantum Gravity and his remarks on citation linking. Jane’s approached by three journal representatives who give her cards and say they’d love to see full proofs of the article once it’s finished. She takes their information, nodding appropriately, and all the while looking over their shoulders. Waiting.

 

She expects him at every discussion roundtable, at every after-hours drinks event. Hell, when the closing remarks come on the final day, she’s half-expecting him to take the stage and bullshit his way through this year’s research highlights. But he doesn’t. He’s absent, conspicuously so, and it itches at her. He’s not at her hotel. He’s not in any of the horrifically tasteful town cars that squire her around. He’s not in any of the first class cabins that carry her back across the ocean to her dusty little town. She’s horribly afraid that he’ll have arranged some type of overhaul on her trailer, but it’s still there, every messy pile of papers, every dirty dish. It’s lovely, Jane thinks, to have her own life arranged as she pleased around her.

 

It just seems...emptier, somehow.

 

It’s not something she would dwell on, not with her work to be lost in, but two days after she gets back, on Take Away Thursday, Darcy drops a bombshell and things-- things kind of get away from Jane.


	7. 'cause there's this tune I found

“You’re getting married.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Jane considers raising her head off the desk and then dismissed that thought. “Married.”

 

“To Thor, yes.”

 

The desk is a good place for her head to be. “You’re marrying Thor.”

 

Darcy taps at her screen. “Can you hear me okay? Jane? I think we might have a bad connection.” She taps again, breathing on the camera and wiping the screen with her sleeve. “Jane? Cough twice if you’re okay.”

 

“I’m okay,” Jane says on autopilot. “It’s just-- I knew you two were serious, but--”

 

“I asked him last week and he said yes. We’re thinking about a quick turnaround, just in case his dad actually puts a hit out on me, say two months out?”

 

Jesus. “That’s-- wow, I mean, quick is one word for it, but--”

 

“It’s good.” Darcy says and Jane looks up at her tone. “We’re good, together I mean. It’s not the sex or social stuff.” Darcy is looking hard at Jane through her computer. “It’s us. We’re good. We’ve talked about who we are and what we need from relationships, and they match and we match and--” Darcy shrugs. “And it’s good.”

 

Jane’s heard worse rationales for getting married, worse by a long shot, and Darcy knows her mind and Thor… Jane shakes her head. They both deserve to be happy. “If you’re happy--” Jane starts.

 

“-- and we are.” Darcy looks serious, but underneath that, she looks content. “We are happy.”

 

Jane can do nothing but smile. “Then I’m happy for you. And I wish you both--”

 

“So you’ll come, then?”

 

Jane falters, her well-wishes cut short. “I’ll what now?”

 

Darcy’s all but vibrating in her seat. “For the wedding! You’ll come!”

 

Jane repeats, “I’ll come,” trying to make sense of it. “Wait, do you mean--?”

 

“Awesome!” Darcy’s already typing something. “I’m sending you the location info. Thor’s assistants are planning literally everything, so all you have to do is show up.”

 

Jane winces. “Darcy, believe me, I would love to be there, but--” She sighs. This is always awkward for those not funded by soft money or potentially non-renewable grants from the fickle federal government. “It’s just, plane tickets are super expensive and I’m not sure--”

 

Darcy waves her off. “Thor said you’d say that. He told me to tell you it’s on the family, err, on him.”

 

Something in the way she phrases that pulls Jane up short. “Thor.” It’s not really a question.

 

Darcy nods too fast. “Umm hmm, yup, my darling husband-to-be.”

 

“Darcy.”

 

“What?”

 

“Darcy!”

 

Hands in the air. “Okay! So maybe it’s more of an extended family gesture.”

 

“How extended is extended?”

 

“...maybe extended is the wrong word.”

 

Jane puts her head back on the desk.


	8. that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat

That son of a bitch. That miserable, insidious, monster of the highest order. If she ever sees him again, she’s going to put her hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes cross.

 

She says she’ll go, of course she’ll do, Darcy is, all things considered, her best friend, there’s no way she’ll miss her best friend’s wedding, Darcy does a victory shimmey on Skype, and they sign off with Jane saying she’ll email Darcy her travel plans. Her travel plans. No one else’s.

 

It’s mid-afternoon when she signs off and her trailer (the apartment she had her eye on fell through) feels too hot, too close, stuffy and dusty and she’s just needs some air, okay?

 

So when she flings the door open and steps out into the blinding sunlight, breathing deeply, and trips over the oversized shipping package, falling bodily forward onto the ground, it’s understandable.

 

Understandable perhaps, but no less infuriating.

 

Twenty minutes later, back inside with ice packs applied to knees and nose, Jane pries the perfectly taped box open with one hand. A flurry of delicate tissue papers reveals something underneath, and Jane sets aside one of the ice packs to lift it out.

 

It is bottle green, the color lush and saturated, like leaves viewed from the bottom of a lake. The material is diaphanous, layers of translucent, gossamer fabric. It’s edged with gold, interlocking curves like horns running the length of the gown. There’s no tag, but there is a name in Italian stitched into the back. Jane Googles the name and spends fifteen minutes clicking through the designer’s custom-made work on Milan runways.

 

Nestled under the dress is a piece of paper. Not a note, like Jane assumed, but a shipping invoice. This was sent via regular mail. It took 10 days to get here.

 

She is going to fucking kill him.

 

She goes to the dollar store and finds a too-shiny purple strapless dress for $9.99. It’s stretchy and dark and a touch too short to wear with heels. She packs that instead.

 

Jane gives all of her first class upgrades to harried-looking older women traveling with kids, a different one at every layover.

 

She arrives in London mid-morning, cramped and exhausted and smelling like an airport. She sees the sleek-suited chauffeur and his sign. She walks right past him and gets a cab.

 

Jane arrives at Darcy’s apartment, her old apartment. Darcy’s left a key under the mat (“living in London in general is unsafe, Jane and besides, if someone does break in, they’re welcome to my dirty dishes) and Jane lets herself in. And time slips and shifts, and it’s two years ago and Jane can hardly breathe for remembering it all. She drifts through the kitchen, running her fingers gingerly over the counter, the table, the cabinets. Smiling at herself, she shakes her head a little. It looks like absolutely nothing’s changed

 

Then she sees the RSVP invite laying on the table. With the venue printed on it.

 

There’s no street address or directions. It’s just a single line of script.

 

_Ritz Club. Mayfair. 8pm._

 

Okay, a few things have changed.


	9. until I fall asleep (spilling drinks on my settee)

Darcy comes home soon after and there is much shouting and bouncing and hugging. The ceremony is tomorrow afternoon with the reception immediately after. She stays just long enough to tuck a jet-lagged Jane into bed and tells her to take a nap. Jane lays down, intending close her eyes for one moment, just a little shut eye for---

 

Jane sleeps for 19 hours straight.

 

She wakes up on her stomach, her face shoved deep into the pillows, and when she rolls over, there’s a Post-It clinging to her forehead. On it, Darcy has scrawled two lines.

 

_You snore like a mastiff. Don’t be late._

 

Jane takes one look at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table, swears, and throws herself into the bathroom.

 

Forty minutes later, Jane steps out of a black cab and shoves a handful of bills at the harassed driver. She insisted, frequently, that avoiding Bond Street would only make them later, traffic or no traffic. He’s probably huffy because she was clearly correct. Despite the stop and go driving, she’s managed to get her hair up into a halfway decent ponytail. She doesn’t quite look like she rolled out of bed. More like she’s deliberately going for recently-rolled-out-of-bed, even messy chic if she’s being generous. It’s a fine line to walk.

 

Once she hands over an obscene amount of money and the cab peels away down the road, Jane realizes there’s someone watching her. A smartly uniformed man extends a hand and helps Jane up over the kerb. “Welcome, madame,” he says, polite and understated. “To the Ritz.”

 

The interior of the Ritz Club at Mayfair is so ostentatious as to circle back around to elegant. The walls glitter gold in the soft light. Chandeliers hang at regular intervals from the ceiling. Sprays of orchids cling to the backs of chairs so richly upholstered Jane is afraid to walk too close to them. All at once, she misses her dusty, broken-in jeans very badly.

 

She passes a counter of impeccably dressed employees, one of whom takes exactly one expressive look at Jane’s dress and raises a meticulously groomed eyebrow. Jane frowns. She’d forgotten her sensible flats back in the States and had stolen a pair of Darcy’s sky high peach heels. It is entirely possible that the desk clerk believes she’s here on an hourly basis. She clicks open her clutch and pulls out her invitation. She strides over to the desk, the heels giving her a swagger she doesn’t quite feel. “The Odinson party,” she states, trying to look nonchalant while directions to the cocktail lounge are discretely murmured to her.

 

Three sets of glass double-doors later, Jane arrives at the party. It is well underway, conversation and wine flowing in equal measure. Jane cranes her neck, the heels going doing so much for her height. She spots Darcy, Thor on her arm. Darcy’s laughing at someone he’s said, shoulders shaking, and Thor’s smiling at her like she’s the only person in the room. Jane sighs, struck again by him even at a distance, and heads over.

 

Darcy sees her first. “Damn girl, and here I thought I had you pegged as an LBD-and-done type.” Darcy gives amazing hugs, her whole body wrapping around Jane until she forgets how nervous she is to be at an Odinson family event. “On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you need a drink right now?” Darcy whispers to her.

 

“I woke up an hour ago,” Jane whispers back.

 

“Honey?” Darcy gestures. “Can you hug Jane and then grab her something that will make her forget her jetlag?”

 

Thor, warm and solid and expensive-smelling (Jane doesn’t recognize this cologne. She remembered it as spicier somehow, memory playing tricks again) hugs Jane, his arms encapsulating both her and Darcy. “Welcome Jane. Thank you for coming.”

 

Jane smiles up at him over Darcy’s shoulder. “Of course. I’m so happy for you.” And she means it. Thor pecks a kiss onto the top of her head, then another onto Darcy’s, then heads towards the bar.

 

Jane pulls back. “Thank you for having me, Darcy. Seriously, I’m so sorry to be a bit late, but--”

 

“I don’t know if he’s coming.”

 

Jane stops short. “I don’t know--”

 

Darcy continues. “You have not stopped crowd-scanning since you came in. Thor invited him, of course, even asked him to be his best man, but he turned him down. I’m not even 100% sure he’ll show at all.”

 

Jane doesn’t pretend to be confused. “How-- how is he?” The question almost chokes her, but she has to know.

 

Darcy shrugs one shoulder, her ivory lace shawl slipping a little. “Better? I think? It’s hard to say I didn’t really know him like you did--” Jane keeps her face very, very still at that. “--but I’d say better. I mean, we don’t really interact that much.”

 

“Really?” Jane can’t imagine Loki not taking full advantage of a wedding to wreak havoc.

 

“It’s true,” Darcy says. “He just sort of ignores me. Small talks me when he has to, but yeah. Not super involved.”

 

Loki making polite small talk with his brother’s fiancee. Jane’s mind boggles. “So,” she rallies. “He’s not coming, then?”

 

Darcy does another check of the room. “My money’s on no. I mean, it’s not like he’s given any indication that he’s planning on it.” Jane sucks in her breath. Non-expedited shipping. Darcy’s on her instantly. “Jane, did he--”

 

Across the room, the double doors bang open. Conversation slows, heads turn. From somewhere in the room, there is the sound of a glass being dropped.

Jane doesn’t look. She doesn’t have to.

 

Loki has arrived.


	10. (do I wanna know) if this feeling flows both ways?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> halfpenny begins the chapter and audreyii takes the rest

He’s wearing what appears to be three-quarters of a formal suit, complete with an overcoat he tossed over the back of a random chair. His jacket is undone, showing his no-doubt tailored waistcoat. It’s bottle green. Complemented with a gold tie that manages to make the walls look closer to both lemon and bronze at the same time. His hair is slicked back and short, the black stark amidst this sea of Nordic blond.

 

He is also wearing aviator sunglasses. Indoors. And smiling at some intensely funny joke only he knows the punchline to.

 

Jane is going to murder him.

 

Loki barely has time to look around before Thor is there, arms around his brother, almost lifting Loki off the ground. Loki, unsurprisingly, writhes like a wet cat and pulls away before Thor can do something ridiculous like swing him around in a joyous circle. Thor pulls him away to a clump of guests and promptly begins introducing him around the room.

 

Darcy’s saying something soothing, or at least that’s what Jane assumes is happening to her left. Jane can’t actually hear what’s being said if anything because it’s all she can do to stand perfectly still. She’s not sure what would happened if she gave into the twitching in her legs and crossed the room to him. What would happen if she walked to him, not skirting the corners of the room, no stopping for chitchat with other wedding goers. Just going to him and pulling him away by that perfect fucking tie and flinging him onto a table and--

 

“Jane?” Darcy is shaking her shoulder. “You look like you’re trying to punch him with your mind.”

 

She’s not wrong, so Jane laughs too cheerfully and seizes Darcy’s drink. She downs it, snatches another off a tray, and downs that one too.

 

 _And here we fucking go_ , she thinks.

 

“That’s the spirit,” says Darcy approvingly as she snags another flute from a passing tray. There is alcohol everywhere. “Do you want this one, too?”

“I’d rather not throw up on your train as you walk down the aisle.”

“There might be competition for that.” Darcy surveys the getting-steadily-more-tipsy crowd beatifically, as though she couldn’t imagine anything better than the best of both English and Norwegian society drunk at her wedding ceremony. “If someone barfs as we’re saying our vows, I’m going to laugh my ass off.”

Jane’s no expert, but that doesn’t sound like normal bride behavior, even for Darcy. “Um… why?”

“Because it’ll wind up all over the society pages. Can’t happen to a nicer group of people.”

“Since when do you read society pages?”

“Since I decided to marry into a family that’s in them.” Darcy grins. “Wait until I show you what they say about me — I’ve got a scrapbook and everything.”

Jane doesn’t let on that she’s seen it all already. What with the whole combing aforementioned pages since the minute she agreed to come back to London.

She wonders what they would have said about her if she’d stayed.

She wonders what they’re going to say about Loki tomorrow. It seems like they’ve always got something to say about him. Hopefully this time it will be something like Asshole Younger Brother Of Upper-Crust Business Mogul Wears Aviator Glasses Indoors Like Total Douche And Is Strangled To Death By Mysterious Brunette Wearing Hooker-Esque Non-Designer Dress.

(Okay, maybe she should have spent more than $9.99.)

Darcy glances over at the wall clock. “All-righty. It’s time for me to go change.” She shoots Jane an appraising, serious look that wouldn’t suit her younger self but somehow works now. “No joking, is this going to be a problem?”

“No.” And it’s not. Jane is not going to let this going to be a problem.

She tries to tell herself that it’s because this is her best (nearly only) friend’s wedding. She tries to tells herself that it’s because she is a mature adult woman who isn’t 21 anymore. She tries to tell herself that it’s because everything that’s happened — up to and including bottles of champagne sent with explicit compliments — isn’t relevant.

For a moment she thinks she sees his head turn in her direction – but his eyes are hidden by those stupid shades, and then he just turns to the next person his brother brings forward and continues to smile and chat like he hasn’t always hated them all.

She gnaws at the inside of her cheek until it smarts because the truth? The truth is that she would sooner eat Darcy’s wine glass than let Loki see he’s gotten to her.

 

“No,” Jane says again. “No problem whatsoever.”


	11. (sad to see you go) was sort of hoping that you'd stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> audreyii's chapter

She avoids him through the rest of the cocktail hour. Or maybe it’s him that’s avoiding her; hard to tell. Either way, they don’t speak. They don’t even wind up in the same quadrant of the room.

Jane doesn’t speak to anyone, actually. Thor’s in high demand, and the only other person she recognizes is Odin, who doesn’t leave the bar and appears to be somewhere between murderous and comatose. Seems like not much has changed there.

Thor, though? Thor has changed. She can see it in the way he is with everyone. Years ago he was loving, and he was kind, but he still had that touch of arrogance that seemed an unavoidable side effect of having whatever you wanted handed to you from birth.

That’s gone, now. She can’t see even the smallest Master of the Universe edge to his air. Someone’s put him in his place and brought him down to earth and made him happy all at the same time.

Jane might have been good for Thor… but Darcy is better.

There’s a pang at that; not for him specifically, but for the glow he and Darcy have. If Jane couldn’t manage that kind of love with someone as good as Thor — and she didn’t, she could never have done the things she did if she had — then she’ll probably never manage it with anyone.

Probably she’s not capable of glowing at all.

Oh, well. She always knew she was terrible with people.

She chases the hurt with another glass of wine and deliberately refuses to look in the direction of a very familiar laugh.

 

_________________________

 

The avoiding thing works remarkably well until the ceremony itself, when the usher escorts Jane to the very front row of the ballroom… and puts her on the groom’s side.

“No, I’m here for Darcy,” she whispers to him. “I’m supposed to be with the bride’s guests.”

The usher gestures to one of two remaining empty seats without acknowledging her complaint. But he blushes as he does it. Guiltily.

Jane will bet every piece of her lab equipment that he’s got a roll of twenties in his pocket right now.

Damn it.

That asshole was treacherous enough armed with nothing but sleight of hand, unparalleled acting skills, and his ruthless, unapologetic amorality. Now, with unlimited ill-gotten cash added to his list of assets… apparentlynothing can stop him from doing whatever the hell he wants.

Not her problem, Jane reminds herself. It hasn’t been her problem for years. It wasn’t even really her problem back then, either, but it definitely isn’t her problem now, no matter how many ushers he bribes.

She fidgets with the latch of her clutch purse as the music begins. The chair next to her is still empty.

Where is he?

The seat stays empty through the prelude. Through Thor taking his place at the end of the aisle, beaming with joy. Through a pretty set of bridesmaids Jane’s never met. Through an adorable flower-girl who finishes her rose petal-tossing duty and then takes her place clinging to the leg of a red-bearded groomsman and refuses to budge.

Then everyone stands (unsteadily, because apparently the cocktail hours has really done its job) as Darcy enters on her mother’s arm, wearing an off-white dress that clings to every curve and red Doc Martins without a hint of shame. There are whispers — more than a few — and Jane knows Darcy hears them, because she winks at Thor. Whose own smile widens to a grin.

If Jane had any doubts that they’re right for each other, that pretty much takes care of them.

When the deacon motions for everyone to sit, someone settles into the seat beside her.

She turns to look at him.

She looks at him for a long minute.

He only has eyes for the ceremony. She might as well be staring at a brick wall.

And then Jane says the only thing she can think of.

“Loki,” she hisses, “take off those stupid sunglasses.”

For a moment she could swear he didn’t hear what she said. Then, very, very slowly, without turning his head in her direction at all, expression completely hidden by the aviators that probably cost more than her car, he brings his index finger to his lips and—

— _he shushes her_.

Then folds his hands on his lap and proceeds to watch the entire service without another sign he’s even aware of her presence.

And, oh my God, she hates him every bit as much today as she did the moment they first met.

 


	12. nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> audreyii's chapter

 

Darcy and Thor kiss — she all but dips him — and are declared husband and wife to the half-drunken applause of the room. As Jane rises to her feet, Loki disappears as silently as he arrived. She doesn’t even notice he’s gone until he’s just… not there anymore.

Maybe he’s just going to leave. Maybe it’s all a wind-up, like the conference in Bern when Jane was checking over her shoulder every thirty seconds, waiting for him to pop out from behind a potted plant. Maybe he just came to his brother’s wedding out of familial duty, and they just happened to be sitting next to each other for an hour in which he barely acknowledged her presence.

Maybe it’s all been a series of coincidences, a string of good luck and a misdirected package. Maybe Jane’s reading way the hell too much into this.

Maybe she’s completely over-estimated her own influence on a man she’s not seen in years. A man she rejected and may very well not have fond memories of her at all.

Yes. She’s overthinking it.

Then Jane picks up her purse. It feels lighter.

She pops the clutch and peeks inside.

Her wallet is gone. And its place, anthropomorphically laughing at her, is a pair of aviator sunglasses.

Murder is too good for him.

 ___________________

Loki’s perfectly capable of vanishing in an abandoned street at mid-day. Jane’s seen him do it. So finding him in a crowded ballroom full of drunk Brits and partying Norwegians? More or less impossible.

Thank God she left her passport back in the hotel room, but the absolute nightmare of replacing every credit card, every ID, that buy ten-get-one-free card from Starbucks that has eight stamps now… it doesn’t bear thinking about.

So she can’t let him just get away.

Probably that’s not an issue. He’s got to be somewhere nearby. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity to watch her bumbling around, flushed with anger and frustration. That’s exactly the kind of shit he loves to pull.

“You haven’t changed at all, you jerk!” Jane says aloud. Two guests nearby glance at her, no doubt wondering why she’s snarling at empty air. “You’re as awful as ever!”

She can feel him laughing at her.

Jane pushes her way to the bar and orders a screwdriver. What was she thinking, coming to this wedding? Thor and Darcy have five thousand friends; they didn’t need her here. She could have sent a card. Cards are nice.

She didn’t cross eight time zones to be tormented from a distance. If he wasn’t even going to talk to her, she should have stayed away.

Not that that’s why she came.

It isn’t.

______________

Jane stews in her own resentment for so long, nursing a single drink because the only thing worse than jet lag is jet lag with a hangover, that it takes her almost half an hour to realize someone she knows has, through accident or design, wound up standing beside her. Someone who wrecked his face in ‘younger days’ and afterwards raised the worst person in the entire world.

“Hi,” she says blankly.

There’s a pause — then Odin turns his head, slowly, to stare at her with his single eye. And she quails, like the stupid kid she used to be. She forgot just how intimidating he is.

“Miss Foster,” he says.

So he remembers her.

Then again, she’d stood there as his wife was lowered into her grave. Hard to forget who was present on the worst day of your life.

Shared experiences or not, he’s still not polite enough to speak English to her. “ _Jeg ville ha foretrukket du,_ ” he says, “ _at kjærringhelvet_.”

Whatever that means.

And from over her shoulder, Jane hears: “ _Vær oppmerksom på dine ord, far. En dag jeg kan minne deg om dem_.”

Odin seems to wilt with exhaustion, like he might keel over right there onto the bar. “ _Jeg har hatt nok av dette_ ,” he mutters, and Jane stares incredulously as he barges his way towards the side exit. The crowd parts for him, because everyone in the world parts for Odin Odinson.

“What the hell?” she exclaims.

The voice behind her laughs. “The doctors call it stress-induced narcolepsy. I told them he’s just ornery, but once a team of specialists have congratulated themselves on some clever diagnosis even I cannot convince them to rethink their genius.”

“Did they ever diagnose you?” Jane says, turning on her heel and looking up. She remembers exactly how far she has to tilt her head.

Loki flashes her a grin. His face is sharper now, and with those pretentious sunglasses out of the way she could swear his eyes are greener. Or maybe she just forgot that part. “I did see a psychiatrist briefly,” he tells her. “It took six hours for her to complete the forms.”

“Did she prescribe anything?”

“A small pharmacy’s worth of anti-psychotics and a lifetime of therapy.”

“And did you get either?”

“Both. The medication brought a tidy profit through certain clandestine avenues. And the psychiatrist, well…” His smile takes on a wicked, very familiar edge. “It was quite fun while it lasted.”

She knows what that look means, and she is not is not is not feeling any kind of twinge that could be remotely considered possessive irritation. “That’s disgusting,” she tells him.

“Indeed. I swore off brunettes afterwards; so few of them are worth the trouble.”

“Give me my wallet back.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Wallet. Back. Now.”

“Wait — am I to understand you’ve misplaced your wallet?”

And this is it. No Hello. No How have you been. No I don’t think about you all the time, but you left your fingerprints in permanent ink. None of that. Just his teasing arrogance and her impotent fury, like they’ve only been apart for hours instead of years.

Shouldn’t there be something to say? It seems like there should be something to say.

But then, it is Loki. He plays by his own set of social rules, and then switches them up if anyone starts to figure them out. Not that she’s ever been good at deciphering social rules anyway.

“My wallet,” she repeats.

“I don’t have it.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

He so is.

“I’m not playing this game, Loki,” she says. Because it would seem he’s forgetting — okay, they’re both forgetting — that this isn’t a game. They don’t play games anymore. “I need my wallet.”

“Of course you do,” he says. “But, again, you fail to grasp a relatively essential part of this equation: I don’t have it.” His smile widens again. “Though I’ll raise no objection if you wish to search me.”

Yes, I stole from you, I’m going to lie about it because that’s how I flirt, and I dare you to stop me.

Just as she’s about to walk away and resign herself to canceling all her credit cards, Loki raises his eyebrows and snaps his fingers, like he’s fucking Archimedes and just discovered water displacement. “I suppose I could,” he says, oh so graciously, “help you search for your missing items.”

“Missing item. Just my wallet.”

“Oh? My apologies.” He gestures to her left ear. “That must be a fashion statement, then.”

Jane puts her hand to her earlobe.

How. The Hell. Did he get a stud earring out without her noticing?

On the far side of the ballroom, the bride and groom enter to thunderous applause from the now-completely inebriated wedding guests. Jane has to stand up on her tiptoes to even see the top of Thor’s head. And when she looks back—

—her wallet has suddenly appeared on the bar like it was never gone at all.

“Oh,” says Loki. “You must have left it here before the ceremony.”

The only reason she doesn’t slap him is because he so clearly is hoping she will.

“I hate you,” she hisses.

“ _Ja, du gjør. Og det har alltid vært veldig upraktisk at jeg elsker det så mye._ ”

“I still don’t know Norwegian, Loki.”

“What a shame.” He offers her his arm. “Shall we search for your earring?” he says, innocently, guilelessly, as though the missing jewelry’s not hidden somewhere in that tailored suit.

Jane’s teeth are going to be ground down to nubs by the end of this weekend. “Fine,” she snaps. “Fine. We’ll ‘look’. But if I don’t get everything — and I mean everything — back by the end of the night, I’m going to throw your stupid sunglasses out a window.”

Loki just shrugs. “If it pleases you,” he says. “I never much cared for them anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant phrases, as according to questionably accurate online translators:
> 
> Jeg ville ha foretrukket du at kjærringhelvet. —I would have preferred you to that pain in the ass.
> 
> Vær oppmerksom på dine ord, far. En dag jeg kan minne deg om dem. —Be aware of your words, father. One day I may remind you of them.
> 
> Jeg har hatt nok av dette. —I’ve had enough of this.
> 
> Ja, du gjør. Og det har alltid vært veldig upraktisk at jeg elsker det så mye. —Yes, you do. And it has always been very inconvenient that I love it so much.


	13. crawling back to you

They don’t look for her missing items. Why would they, when Loki can squire her around the entire room, deeply intimidating to anyone who will listen that she is either his wife or his secretary, or both, depending on the amount of shocked expressions he’s after. Finally, she breaks away and deposits herself at a mostly empty table.

 

The sunglasses are minimalist, sleek, with curves like a Ferrari. Jane is sure they cost more than her trailer and truck put together. Jane toys with them through the first dance, the wedding toasts, endless fucking glass clinking and subsequent kisses.  They’re plastic. Grossly expensive plastic to be sure, but plastic nonetheless. And yet they still manage to look like him. Distant and elegant and smug, and yet still somehow vaguely arousing. Jane stirs her Manhattan viciously as the band strikes up another classy jazz standard. She hates everyone in this reception hall.

 

“Care for a dance?”

 

He’s sitting at her table. God only knows how long he’s been there. “I don’t dance,” Jane says. She’s not being coy. She really, really doesn’t.

 

Loki makes a sympathetic noise. “Ah,” he says. _How embarrassing_ , his tone says. Given the opportunity, Jane would frame him for arson for the tone alone. He stands, makes a minute adjustment to his waistcoat. “Then perhaps I can escort you to the coat check.”

 

“Are-- are you throwing me out?”

 

Loki blinks at her. “I believe, traditionally speaking, that lost and found departments are located somewhere in coat check vicinity.”

 

Jane’s mouth twists. “I don’t need to visit lost and found.”

 

His eyebrows lift, suffused with genial delight. “You don’t? Does that mean you’ve found your missing items? How marvelous.” He pulls out her chair and pulls her to her feet. “I’ve always found that these things turn up once you stop looking for them.” Jane begins mentally listing the spectral characteristics of Class I stars and lets him guide her towards the door.

 

It’s crowded and someone nearly runs them down. Jane side-steps rapidly, only to find herself staring down another guest. This time Loki steps away, pulling Jane after him. He pivots, still holding onto Jane’s arm, and she turns with him only to have him glide backwards--

 

They’re dancing. The impossible has occurred and Jane Foster is dancing with Loki Odinson at her ex-lover’s, his brother’s wedding to her best friend. Jane isn’t even surprised, not really. It’s as if Surprise as a force acting in her life has given up entirely. Part of her has been expecting this for months, maybe longer. Jane doesn’t believe in closure as a concept. She’s studied too much of the universe to believe anything really ends. Maybe this is one of Tegman’s bubble universes, the kind she prefers to ignore because it screws up her math. Maybe she’s always been here, eyes fixed on the gold threading woven into his jacket, the sheen of his tie. She sways to the music, the tension finally starting to ebb from her shoulders. This isn’t so bad after--

 

“Pity about the dress.” Loki’s looking over her shoulder, his smile the picture of polite distance. Jane frowns. “I suppose I’ll have to call in the insurance policy I took out on the package.” Jane frowns harder. He glances down and for a split-second, that smile is all teeth. “As it was clearly lost in the post.”

 

It happens almost without conscious thought. Her hand cracks across his face, her palm smarting from the contact. His head snaps to one side, a red mark already blooming on his cheek. Jane is dimly aware that they’re being stared at, but she ignores everyone while she turns on her borrowed heels and stalks from the room. She doesn’t look behind her to see if he’s following.

 

She knows he is.

 

Jane is two sets of double doors and half a hallway away when he catches up, frisking around her like an overexcited puppy. “Such violence from such a little thing like you. You have to know everyone will be chittering about it.” Jane could trace the outline of her fingers on his cheek. His grin is the only thing keeping him from dancing. “Oh, and what will they be saying, Dr. Foster? About that common American in her tawdry--” He doesn’t get to finish.

 

Jane has never resorted to brute force before in her life. She finds it uninformed and counterproductive. She seizes Loki by the neck, her already chipping nail polish stark against the paleness of his throat. He stills instantly, pliant under her touch, breath held and pulse beating shallow under her fingertips.  Never before had she anticipated she would find brute force so satisfying.

 

Steadily, carefully, she walks him back up against the wall. He looks like he might faint. Jane might like it if he fainted. He bumps hard into the wall and his eyes fall shut. “ _Herregud_ ,” he breathes or something that sounds like that.

 

Jane squeezes lightly and he swallows hard, the long line of his throat warm under her hand. “Did you know,” she says, all patience departed, “that I find it particularly annoying when you speak Norwegian to me?”

 

Loki fixes bright eyes on her. “No, you don’t.”

 

Jane squeezes harder and he makes a choked sound. “No more Norwegian tonight.”

 

He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before. “What about something else?”

 

“Loki--”

 

“ _Vous êtes un ouragan_.” It sounds like a promise. “ _Je voudrais vous faire une reine_.”

 

Jane rolls her eyes. “Just plain English.”

 

“So pedestrian. I can be very persuasive in my mother tongue.”

 

Jane snorts. “I’ve heard you say a lot in Norwegian, but I’m positive you’ve never said ‘please.’”

 

“There is no word for ‘please’ in Norwegian.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“ _Jeg skulle ønske jeg var_.” Loki pushes into her hand. His voice comes roughly. “Would I lie to you?”

 

Jane goes up on her tiptoes, her head spinning with champagne and a taste of control. “Where is my wallet?”

 

Loki grins. “I’ll show you,” he says.

 

Jane lets him go and follows him up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate, Patron Saint of The Non-Native Speaker  
> __________________________________________________________
> 
> Herregud- Oh God
> 
> Vous êtes un ouragan- you are a hurricane
> 
> Je voudrais vous faire une reine- I would make you a queen
> 
> Jeg skulle ønske jeg var- I wish I was
> 
> (he’s telling the truth, by the way. there really isn’t a specific word for ‘please’ in Norwegian.)


	14. ever thought of calling when you've had a few? ('cause I always do)

It’s a long walk to the elevators and an even longer trip up to the penthouse suite. The floor it’s on requires a special pass key, and even then, they still have a thin flight of stairs up to the suite. Jane grinds her teeth the final handful of steps. This is a farce and they’re both aware of it. He hasn’t left the reception hall all night. Her wallet has to be somewhere on his horrible fucking person. Despite his admittedly practiced sleight of hand, he wasn’t actually magic. Magic doesn't exist and if it did, Jane’s pretty sure it would just be called science anyways. He walks up ahead of her and pauses, making a show of searching for his room key. Jane realizes she’s trembling. She has no idea why she’s here.

 

During the long walk she recognizes his cologne, its sharp spike in her nose. The lingering spice. She knows exactly why she’s here.

 

Jane’s not a violent person. Even as a kid, she never pushed anyone on the playground or wrestled other students. Of course, once she was identified by standardized testing as someone who should probably be in grad school by age 12, she never really got the chance. She’s dealt with irritating research partners, annoying PIs, frustrating professors, and downright infuriating people in general, but at no point in any of her interactions did she want to backhand anyone until her knuckles cracked. Ahead of her, Loki looks over his shoulder and with a flourish, produces the key for all intents and purposes from thin air. She may have to rethink that magic thing.

 

Jane sucks in a lungful of air and marches into the suite. It’s exhaustingly ornate, the canopied bed, side room with dark wood dining table, and expensive wallpaper all registering as “yes, we get it, you’re filthy rich” to Jane’s lower middle class sensibilities. Loki spins on his heel and smirks. He starts to open his mouth and Jane can see everything. It’s like the future slams into her and presents itself for inspection in slow motion. He’ll posture and she’ll grouse, and he’ll chortle at her and she’ll get furious, and in the end, he’ll get exactly what he wants. Well, Jane has lived that story before and she’s not a huge fan of getting played. Loki must notice her new stillness because his face drops a little. He looks younger without his superior-being-tremble-mere-mortals expression, unsure of what comes next. Jane could get used to him looking a little nervous when he’s staring at her.

 

Before he can recover, Jane kicks the suite door closed behind her and launches herself at him. He has just enough time to register surprise before she’s on him, knocking him back onto fussy duvet. She can feel her heels catching at the intricate embroidery. She digs them in harder.

 

Under her, Loki grins up. Jane cracks him across the face again. Loki grins harder. “Oh Jane,” he breathes and he almost sounds relieved. “Jane, you’ve--”

 

Another slap. Jane’s palm stings. She can only imagine how he feels. “Where is it?”

 

“Whatever do you mean?”

 

Another. “Where?”

 

“I haven’t the faintest.”

 

He’s hard as steel against her thigh. Jane grabs him by his lapels and hauls him to close to her face. He looks blissful. “Stand up,” she hisses. He does.

 

For a doubtless bespoke suit of ludicrously high quality, it comes away like tissue paper off a Christmas present. Jane has Loki down to bare skin in less than a minute. She stoops to pick up the surprisingly small heap of clothing, kicking his shoes under the bed.  A good squeeze confirms the wallet isn’t in them. Jane pitches them away. Loki folds his arms across his bare chest. “I told you,” he says, “that I didn’t have it.”

“That’s not possible.”

He spreads his arms, shrugging as though helpless. “And yet here we are.”

 

Jane stalks over and takes him by the throat. It was so beautifully effective last time and she is not disappointed. Loki gurgles a bit as she flexes her hand. She pulls ever so slightly and he drops to his knees. It’s the first time she’s ever felt taller than him. She likes it.

 

“If you don’t have it, then where is it?” Jane sees him start to smile and cuts him off. “Lie to me and I’ll ask Darcy to spot me the cab money instead.” That pulls him up. He peers up at her, brow knit, biting his lip. Jane starts to sweat at the sight.

 

He stares at her an uncomfortably long minute. His knees must be killing him, Jane thinks. Finally he says, “It’s in your purse.” Jane almost sees red. She jerks him to his feet. He looks bereft until she plants a hand on his shoulder and knocks him back onto the bed. “Between the lining,” he gasps, flushing from cheekbones to sternum. “ _Du er den eneste personen jeg noen gang har fortalt om at_.” He looks like a drowning man. “ _Du er den eneste som teller nok til å vite_.”

 

Jane wants him to never speak another word to her again. Jane wants to kiss him so badly she feels sick with it. “What,” she manages, “did I say about Norwegian?”

 

He looks lost, astounded at himself. “I never--” Jane is already stripping off her underwear and climbing on the bed. “I’ve never--” And Jane is biting at the junction between his neck and his shoulder, and he’s keening, and she’s fisting his cock in her hand, and and and--

 

(When Jane dreams about London, she dreams about this, this and nothing else. She should dream about Darcy or Thor or Frigga or a hundred other things, but she doesn’t. She should feel guilty. She tells herself she want to. She tells herself she hates him and it’s true, she does, but the two of them are a math equation without a tidy answer, the answer instead a twisting, curving line of possibilities, and as much as she hates him, and as much as she believes he must hate her back, she loves, loves, loves--)

 

Loki chants nonsense as Jane rises and bucks over him. Words like _pule_ and _perfect_ and her name while her nails score tracks across his chest. It shouldn’t feel like victory, she thinks. The disappearing wallet wasn’t even a good trick, barely more than an irritating accident, but to Jane, he might as well have confessed the secrets to every illusion she’s ever seen. It’s concession, plain and simple, and it’s more than Jane ever expected. Heat is rising in her belly, through her chest, into her throat. Loki’s here, stretched out before her as if on an altar, something beautiful offered up to her, groaning, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his white teeth deep in his lower lip, and Jane can’t help herself, can’t stop the words--

 

“I missed you,” says Jane Foster and it’s the truth spilling from her without intention to warm or wound.

 

Loki keens under her hands. Jane can feel how badly he’s shaking, how much he needs his this, needs her, and she was right, she’s not capable of glowing, not at all, she’s on fire, lit up from the inside, something wide and dark and endless opening her up.

 

“I missed you,” she says again, her body pulling him in, the truth of it burning her up.

 

Loki thrashes his head on the bed, a fever dream made flesh. “Liar,” he gasps and convulses, hands pulling her hips to him as he rides it out. Jane closes her eyes against the feeling, her nerves still sparking. Loki’s still murmuring when she topples off him and crashes to the mattress.

 

He looks like a shipwreck, adrift in the wide bed. That’s the only reason Jane reaches for him. He shudders under her touch, half sensate and panting for breath.

 

Jane is almost positive that is the only reason she reaches for him.

 

The last thing Jane sees before sleep takes her is the blink of her earring, twinkling in Loki’s ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate, because the Future is Amazing  
> ________________________________________________
> 
> Du er den eneste personen jeg noen gang har fortalt om at- You are the only person I've ever told about that
> 
> Du er den eneste som teller nok til å vite- You are the only one who matters enough to know
> 
> pule- fuck


	15. maybe i'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new

Jane doesn’t stay for the wedding breakfast the next morning. Jane stays exactly long enough to rescue Loki’s shirt from the floor and fix it into a half-tied jacket, locate her shoes, and carefully slip away. Loki sleeps on, or if he doesn’t, he’s an excellent actor. There’s a single lock of hair that’s fallen over his closed eyes. Jane pauses in the doorway, her hands twitching to brush it back.

 

She clicks the door closed behind her before she can give into that impulse, an impulse she ignores all the way back across the Atlantic. From her coach class seat.

 

Driving back into Puente Antiguo, Jane expects something overwrought. Designer fireworks spelling out her name. Wreaths of orchids hung about the lab. But everything is in its place, no visible changes she can spot. She holds her breath for days and is relieved, _relieved dammit and nothing else_ , when there’s nothing.

 

There’s nothing for exactly two weeks.

 

It’s 9 in the morning, and Jane has already been up for what feels like days compiling all the data she missed during her travels, the tracking equipment singing gently to her in the air conditioned lab. The noises lull her, the soft hum of science grinding its way toward truth, so that it’s not until the seventh text alert that she takes any notice.

 

It’s from Eric. They’re all from Eric, at regular intervals and in all caps. The most recent one reads JANE I DON’T CARE HOW IT HAPPENED JUST TELL ME THIS IS REAL. She frowns at the message, then scrolls up. And up. And up.

 

She doesn’t bother responding, just pulls up BBC.com on her laptop and clicks on the Lifestyle section. It’s front page news. Would he settle for anything less?

 

**_“Loki Odinson on Quitting the Clubs for a Shot at the Sky--_ **

 

“ _Loki Odinson, 26, is no stranger to the society pages, although his antics have often been more Daily Mail than Miss Manners. However, with this series of donations, it looks like he’s aiming for another periodical all together: National Geographic. The newly established Odinson Foundation for the Advancement of Scientific Inquiry has burst onto the philanthropic scene by granting full funding for two years to three key astrological projects in Norway, the United States (New Mexico,) and right here in London. When questioned on this departure from his father’s tradition of supporting the performing arts [see our article ‘ **Odin: the Quintessential Patron’** ], Odinson merely replied that he’s far more intrigued by what’s about our heads than inside them._

 

(“Liar,” whispers Jane, content in the knowledge that he cannot tell from half a world away whether or not she is smiling.)

 

 _“Odinson, the family’s second son [see our article ‘ **Thor Odinson to Wed PR Rising Star’** ] and a bit of a black sheep, remarked that he intends to be deeply involved in the Foundation’s oversight and management. He continues that while this may appear sudden, the plans have been in motion for quite some time. On the topic of upcoming grants or projects, the founder remains elusive, but hints that they too will continue in a scientific vein. After all, the nonprofit’s letterhead reads ‘_sumus, quod stellae, _’ or to the layman--”_

 

Jane shuts the laptop. Her Latin may be have been learned from classification charts instead of classical poetry, but it works just as well.

 

“ _Sumus, quod stellae_ ,” she says aloud in the quiet of her lab.

 

It doesn’t taste like a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate, for Those of Use Who Didn't Take Latin  
> ______________________________________________________
> 
> sumus, quod stellae- we belong to the stars


	16. epilogue, or six months later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> color in your cheeks (have you no idea that you're in deep) epilogue
> 
> "Winter in Oslo is just about as far from New Mexico as you can get."

Winter in Oslo is just about as far from New Mexico as you can get. Jane’s been here for 10 days now and every one of them has been a subzero mess despite what feels like almost constant sunlight. It’s disconcerting and the cognitive dissonance is fucking with Jane’s sleep schedule and the translator provided by the Odinson Foundation is not being cooperative. Which is why Jane’s being so testy.

The translator grits her teeth in the loosest approximation of a smile. “If Dr. Foster will permit me, once again I fear there is no direct translation for that particular phrase. Perhaps there is another way to express that?”

Jane deserves a medal for courage under fire for refusing to bang her head on the table. “No, I don’t think so. If the Oslo Observatory wants to flagrantly disregard standard reporting practices in favor of slapping together a half-researched report, then the only expression that fits ‘I’ve got an army of taser-wielding interns that say otherwise.’”

The translator sighs, considers, and begins speaking in a tone that’s far too polite to actually be relating Jane’s words. The army of suits on the other side of the conference table nod sagely. There is not a single outraged face among them. Dammit.

Jane’s exaggerating, but not by that much. These days she does have an army of interns, assistants, and grant-funding partners dodging in and around her lab. The new lab, she should say, a converted building in the heart of town where the Piggly Wiggly used to be. Surely some of them must own tasers.

She wonders what the lab crew is up to right now. She wonders what time it is in Puente Antiguo. She tries to count backwards to find out, but realizes she has no idea what time it is here and gives up. One of the army of suits speaks rapidly and the translator winces. Jane sits up.

“It would appear,” the translator relays, “that there has been a miscommunication about the preferred documentation style for this branch’s results. Apparently, the lab crew has been using national reporting standards—“

“But the foundation clearly stated that EU measures would ensure wider publishing possibilities—“ Jane’s rant gets cut off by the whoosh of doors being flung open.

“Oh dear,” says a too-familiar voice, “still talking to the Observatoriets Venner crew? You’re behind schedule, Miss Foster.” Jane keeps her eyes trained on the now truly flustered translator.

“It’s Dr. Foster, actually,” she replies, shuffling her notes. “And we’re booked for general review for another 45 minutes.” She has no idea if that’s true. She hopes so.

Jane feels him brush behind her, a perfectly careless hand lighting briefly on the back of her chair, skating her neck. Jane twitches and hates herself for it.

Loki Odinson slides into the seat next to, oh come on, the blushing translator. He asks her something in Norwegian and she responds, tucking her hair behind one ear. Jane consciously does not roll her eyes. She shoots a grim smile at the row of suits, now shifting uneasily and murmuring to each other. The only thing Jane wants at this exact moment is to go back to her hotel room, pull the black-out shades, and try to grab an hour or two of sleep.

Next to her, Loki says something that makes the translator giggle, a soft breathy sound.

Okay, maybe not the only thing.

To Jane’s amazement, the translator picks up her bag, says something Jane is incredibly glad she doesn’t understand, and leaves the conference room, a spring in her step. Jane glares at Loki. “I simply told her,” he says, sly and arrogant and in the same room as Jane for the first time in months, “that as I am fluent in both languages necessary for this meeting, she was much better off heading home early.” He shoots his damn cuffs, utterly detatched. “Although I will say she was rather explicit about what she intended to do once she returned to her apartment.”

Jane thinks back to the pep talk she gave herself this morning. She stared straight into the mirror and promised herself that she was a professional, fully capable of maintaining a cordial working relationship with the head of a charitable foundation supporting her work. She closes her eyes against the memory of his fingers between her legs. “How nice for her,” she says before smiling at the suits. “Would you please inform these gentlemen that as per the foundation by-laws, all reporting standards must be EU compliant, which in this case involves several additional metrics to track?” After a moment of silence, she glances at Loki.

He’s considering her carefully. “You look awful," he states, blunt and unconcerned. “When was the last time you slept?”

Jane wants to snap _none of your business_ , but instead says, “I’m not sure. What’s today?”

Loki narrows his eyes. One of the suits says something and Jane sighs, ready to do battle over data management once again. But before she can say anything, Loki begins addressing the suits.

His tone is kind and colloquial. It’s full of warm and humor and a little wry amusement. To Jane’s ear, he might as well be narrating a children’s book full of good fairies and happy woodcutters. The effect on the suits, however, disproves that theory. To a man, the blood drains out of their face. One on the far right looks about thirty seconds from fainting. Jane is just about to tell Loki to knock it off when the suit who speaks the most, the Alpha Suit to Jane’s mind, leaps out of his chair, shouting and gesturing madly at Loki, at Jane, at the city displayed outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. After finishing, he stalks from the room, followed at intervals by the remainder of the army.

When Loki and Jane are alone in the cavernous room, the only sound Jane can hear is the distant echo of the street far below. “I’m sure that wasn’t called for,” she says, avoiding his gaze.

Loki shrugs. “Perhaps. In any event, I believe you’ll find you have no further difficulties in communication your desires to those, as you said, gentlemen.”

Jane huffs out a sigh. “They’re not my desires. They’re internationally recognized templates for data—“

“Besides,” he continues, rising to pace toward the windows. “You have more important agenda items for this afternoon.”

Jane rocks back in her chair. “’Hello Jane, how are you,’” she mimics. “Fine, thanks, and yourself?’”

Loki spins around from his place in front of the window. “Are you genuinely upset over the lack of small talk? Very well.” He paints on a honeyed smile. “Are you well, Dr. Foster? My brother and his wife send their regards. Two nights ago, I woke from a dream about your mouth on my prick and soiled my sheets like a schoolboy.” Wretched, desperate heat floods Jane, making her shoulders tense and her hands clench. Loki lifts an eyebrow. “Surely we are beyond pleasantries.”

Jane cannot stop looking at Loki, although she’s coming to the realization that that’s counterproductive to her entire _be professional_ ethos. “Loki,” she breathes, then clears her throat. “I’m really trying here,” she attempts, then breaks off. “I mean, I want us to be able to work well together.” Jane can hear her voice going high and earnest. “I mean, with the foundation and all, you’re kind of my boss and—“

Jane recognizes her mistake almost before Loki does. Everything in him zeros in on her, all attention directed square at what she’s just said. “Obviously, that’s not true, of course,” she blurts, far too late. “You’re not actually—“

“Your boss.” Loki hisses the final syllable a touch too long. “Naturally.” He plucks a quartered piece of paper from an inner pocket of his jacket. “And as I’m only your primary and, indeed, only funding party, I have absolutely no control over your media relations." He flicks his fingers and the paper disappears, reappears. With a sudden sick realization, Jane feels herself get wet. Over slight of hand parlor tricks. "Then naturally, this press release statement is merely a guideline for your remarks this afternoon.”

Jane willfully ignores the tension radiating through Loki and says, “I’m not scheduled to make any statements.”

“How odd,” Loki all but purrs. “My itinerary says you have an interview scheduled with the _Oslo Times_ in—,” he checks his watch, “ten minutes.”

Jane bolts to her feet. “What!?” She glances down at her rumpled shirt and pencil skirt. “I’m not dressed for the press, I can’t—“

Loki waves a hand. “To be conducted entirely over the phone. Really, that assistant of yours should have informed you.”

Jane glowers. “My assistant resigned three weeks ago.” She doesn’t like admitting that. It’s her fourth in as many months.

Loki flicks the square at Jane, who catches it in both hands. “Shameful.” He shrugs off his suit jacket. “These young men have no stamina.”

Jane unfolds the paper and scans the first paragraph. “’Without the Odinson Foundation and the boundless generosity of Loki Odins’—I’m not saying this.” She looks up from the page, but Loki has been too quick for her. He’s already behind her, one hand coasting over her shoulder. Jane arches into his palm and wishes she hadn’t. “This is overwrought, to say the least. And I haven’t been briefed on any of the other branches talking to the press.”

Loki’s hand drifts from her shoulder down her back. It toys with the waistband of her skirt. “I assure you that they will all be releasing similar statements in short order.” Jane feels his mouth at the base of her neck. “Although none with such delightful incentive.”

God, she’d forgotten how hot his mouth felt. “What does that mean?”

Gripping one arm, Loki spins her around and pushes her down, back flat on the conference table. “I’ve given the reporter your mobile number,” he says, one hand unbuttoning her blouse, the other rucking up her skirt. “She’s been instructed to record the conversation for the Times’ new podcast segment on women in the sciences.” Jane reaches for Loki’s belt, but he pushes her hands away. “With that in mind, you’ll want to read what I’ve given you loudly and clearly, so everyone who listens will understand what you’re saying.”

“Fuck what you’ve given me.” Jane struggles against him and Loki bends at the waist, drops his forehead to her shoulder, shuddering. “I’m not reading your manifesto on how great you are.”

Loki slips two clever fingers under the lace band of her underwear.

(Did she pack only her nice underwear for the trip to Oslo? Maybe, maybe not, maybe not consciously, maybe it’s the only thing she thought about. Maybe multiverses exist and complicate the hell out of everything.)

“If you can still speak in ten minutes, _hespetreet_ , I will be very disappointed in myself.”

Loki proceeds to spend the next ten minutes of his life thoroughly, methodically taking Jane to pieces, with his hands between her legs and his teeth at her throat. At least Jane assumes it’s ten minutes. The way he’s teasing her, stringing it out it feels like hours.

When she’s finally close, so close she can feel her back arching, her phone begins to ring. “You’ll want to get that,” Loki gasps and thank fuck he sounds as wrecked as she feels. “It’s the future of my foundation on the line.”

Jane curses him out as colorfully as she can, but she answers her phone.

Marta Aadland with the _Oslo Times_ is clipped and cool on the phone. “I understand,” she says in perfect, bell-like English, “that you have a statement prepared?”

Jane can barely remember her own name. “I—I, umm, I guess—“ Without warning, something small and crumpled in pushed into her open palm. Jane grits her teeth as she fumbles it open. “There is a prepared statement, if you’ll just give me a moment.”

“Dr. Foster, are you all right?” Marta Aadland from the _Oslo Times_ sounds concerned.

“Jet lag,” Jane gasps as Loki twists his fingers. “It’s a killer, let me tell you.”

 

"I-ah- sorry, I just. Um--"

" _Se på deg_ ," Loki says, full volume, totally audible by anyone in a 50 foot radius. " _D u desperat ting. Du bør alltid være dette, ødelagt og vakker._"  


Ms. Aadland asks, "Is there someone else on the line?"

"No," Jane grunts, fisting her hand in Loki's hair, too tight. He hisses sharply, his back arching in one smooth curve. She shoves once, hard, and Loki jerks down her body, his breath hitching oddly. 

From somewhere around her hips, Loki noses at her skirt. "Tell her, Dr. Foster," he says, pushing the hem up her thighs. "Tell her whose words are in your mouth, whose mouth is--" 

Jane jerks the end of the phone away from her. "You're bluffing." He won't. He _doesn't--_

There’s a pause before Ms. Aadland clears her throat. “The statement?”

Jane brings the paper in front of her face, the page trembling slightly. “’Without the Odinson Foundation and the boundless generosity of Loki Odinson, I wouldn’t be speaking to you today.” From somewhere around her bellybutton, Loki hisses roughly and bites down, teeth sharp on her skin. “In fact, without Loki Odinson, none of my work would have been possible.” Another louder hiss, and Jane feels Loki’s teeth on the lace of her underwear, tugging down before sliding up and up and oh God, up. Jane yelps.

“Dr. Foster?” Ms. Aandland sounds a touch irritated this time. “Are you certain you’re able to continue?”

With hands cupping her things, Loki stares up at Jane. She clutches the phone tighter. “Yes,” she says, “yes, I’m perfectly able to continue.”

It's--oh God, Jane can't think straight. Softly, so softly, and then. And then. Loki apparently decides that a thing worth doing, no matter how new, is a thing worth doing well and that's the last of Jane's cognitive reasoning skills for a while.

In the end, Jane has no idea what she actually says. Things like “visionary” and “revolutionary” and “Renaissance patron.” At one point, she thinks she hears the phrase “genuinely selfless individual” escape her, but that’s the same moment Loki latches his mouth over her clit and begins to suck in earnest. If the representative of one of the most influential English-language periodicals in the region notices Jane’s propensity to gasp and stumble over sentences, she’s too professional to remark on it. Finally, after what feels like ages, Ms. Aandland thanks Jane for her time and Jane has exactly enough wherewithal to thank her in return before pitching the phone across the room.

Loki lifts his head from between Jane’s thighs. “Look at you,” he murmurs, fingers replacing lips against her. Jane keens with the changed sensation. “Spread out for me, singing my praises for the world to hear.” Jane isn’t sure Loki knows he’s speaking out loud. “Anyone could look through those windows and see you like this, _hjelpeløs og perfekt_.”

The thought of someone seeing them making her hips buck, shame and lust coursing through her. She rallys enough to say, “Tomorrow I am retracting that entire statement.” Her back arches as Loki drives his hand into her faster, surer.

“Liar,” he says, plucking at her breast. “Wanton. _Elsking_.” He puts his lips next to Jane’s, licks at her panting mouth. “Mine.”

“Never.” So close, she’s so fucking close.

Loki rips at his trousers and is inside her in a moment. “Tell me you missed me.” He sets a punishing rhythm. “Tell me you longed for me.”

Jane grinds herself up and up against him. “No,” she hisses, writhing with feeling.

“Tell me you are lost without my hands on you.” Loki’s thrusts are stuttering, becoming less measured, less confident. “That you think of me whenever you reference Heisenberg in your tedious papers.”

To Jane’s dismay, she snaps at the mention of Heisenberg, her body bowing under Loki, her pleasure condensing the known universe down to a single point before exploding outwards. Above her Loki groans, rides out her climax, his hands gripping painfully on her hips. “Loki.” Jane all but sighs his name, too sated for embarrassment.

“Tell me,” Loki grits out, “tell me that you dream of me as well.”

Jane presses her mouth to his ear, her nails digging deep into his back. “Never once,” she lies and Loki moans aloud as he comes, his face pushed hard into her neck.

Jane drags in one deep breath, then another. Eventually, Loki rolls to one side, banding his arms around her waist so that she follows, nesting against his chest. Jane fingers his tie. “How long have you had that press statement ready?”

Loki snorts. “Months. I had the bones of it down before the foundation was approved for non-profit status.”

Jane hums. “That’s what I thought,” she says. Six inches away, a letter opener gleams, steel and shining in the midday sun. Jane rolls hard, seizes the blade, and straddles Loki. He looks up at her, sex-blurred and curious. Jane hefts the blade. “That was the last time,” she says, “that you ever tell me what I can or cannot say about my work.”

With one smooth motion, Jane stabs the letter opener down. She doesn’t miss, not by an inch. When Loki opens his eyes, he finds his expensive silk tie has been pined to the polished oak tabletop, a hands-breath away from his throat. “You cannot be serious,” he says, trying to sit up and gagging himself. Jane sighs to herself, content and satisfied.

“I really, really am,” she remarks, sliding off the table and smoothing down her skirt. Once she has rearranged her hair and blouse, and listened to Loki quietly choke attempting to free himself, she gathers her notes, neatening them with several brisk strikes against the table. “If you ever try to pull a stunt like that again,” she whispers, leaning over a struggling Loki, “I’ll leak the lab’s outlying data to Erik, who’ll have no trouble finding a publisher.” Loki snarls at her, but can’t quite form words. “And just so you know, after my last two publications, academia would take me in with open arms. You’re the only one with something to lose here.” She pats his cheek. “Try to remember that.”

Loki lets loose a string of Norwegian, none of which sounds particularly flattering to Jane. She tskes. “Manners,” she says, grinning. “I’ll see you at the next board meeting?” She nearly skips out of the conference room.

On her way out, she tells a janitor Mr. Odinson has requested he be undisturbed for another half an hour. “After all, he’s an important man,” she confides, guileless and sweet. “He’s done so much for us already, surely we can spare him this.” At the reception desk, Jane plucks a single freshly sharpened pencil from a cluster and scribbles a note, the only phrase in Norwegian she's learned by heart.

_ Heisenberg kan kysse meg i ræva   
_

"For Mr. Odinson, when he's finished in the conference room," she says, tying it around the pencil in a rough bow.

She takes the rest of the pencils with her when she leaves. 

 

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate (is a Gift to Us All)
> 
> hjelpeløs og perfekt- helpless and perfect  
> Hespetreet- hellcat (more or less)  
> se på deg- look at you  
> du desperat ting. du bør alltid være dette, ødelagt og vakkeryou desperate thing. you should always be this, broken and beautiful  
> Elsking- darling  
> Heisenberg kan kysse meg i ræva- Heisenberg can kiss my ass


End file.
